The Making Of A Primary Color
by xcutfromtheteam
Summary: John is the young and lonely bassist of a famous band, and Sherlock is an aspiring violinist who's just had his dreams crushed. They make their assumptions about each other when they first meet, but what they don't know is where they'll end up together.
1. Doll's Minor

**_The Making Of A Primary Color_**

* * *

 **Chapter One: "Doll's Minor"**

* * *

In many ways, John's life mirrored that of those miraculous meant-to-be stories you hear about and are amazed by. One with so many 'what if's' that you could be kept up all night wondering what would have happened if this person had never done this, of if this person had done this. Then how would it have ended? Happy, maybe, but not happy enough that random people miles and seas away would be talking about it with their friends, that's for sure.

John's story, for all intents and purposes, starts when he's eight and is given a bass for Christmas that he doesn't intend to play at first. But Hunter Burgan on MTV looked pretty cool doing it, and maybe people would see him the way he saw him if he just had one. For four years, the bass sits in the corner of his room collecting dust apart from the times John picked it up to show one of his friends who came over without ever touching a single string.

But it isn't until John turns twelve that he realizes it's not just Hunter Burgan who looks cool with a bass. There's Mark Hoppus and Cone McCaslin and Johnny Christ and Peter Hook. In fact, with every song John listened to, he found himself focusing on the bass, even if it was sometimes harder to hear depending on the song. Meanwhile, his best friend, Greg, had been taking guitar lessons since he was big enough to hold one, and at twelve, his prodigy-like playing was a big deal at school. So, one day, John shows him the bass, wildly out of tune and so dusty that both Greg and John cough when John blows some of it off, and he asks about playing it.

Greg explains that the guitar and bass are totally different instruments and that he wouldn't be of much help because he's never even touched a bass in his life, but if John was really serious about it, he could be playing like his heroes in no time. Greg's guitar instructor could also play bass, John found out, and with Greg's help, they were able to talk John's parents into letting him start attending the lessons with Greg.

Within the first two weeks, both the instructor and Greg were both utterly baffled at John's progress. But he didn't see what was so shocking about it. He had nothing to go off of to know how he was supposed to be progressing. All he was doing was listening and practicing at home, putting in his share and trying to do his best. Also, John still played pretty badly, in his opinion. With Greg, the notes just came blended perfectly. But with John, he had to stop and check his fingers, and sometimes he couldn't get the chords right, or everything was discordant and didn't sound like the song he was learning at all.

But then the instructor told him that most people didn't play the way he did until they'd been playing for a month. With this in mind, John's confidence boosted, and he tried that much harder, and even his parents, who were skeptical and expected him to be bored with it in a month because, admittedly, John did do that a lot, were starting to take notice, and they were very impressed.

By thirteen, John was nearly on Greg's level, who just kept getting better and better, ripening with age, and he knew and could play the entire From Under The Cork Tree album by heart.

By fourteen, John could learn virtually any song by ear and was actually starting to look cool doing so.

But by fifteen, the story really began.

He and Greg had been fifteen for far too long and were longing to be sixteen. They always played duets together in either John's room or Greg's garage or backyard because his house was smaller, and his parents got annoyed if they were too loud. One day in John's room, in the middle of MakeDamnSure, Greg pointed out how neither of them could sing, even if you could get away with shouting the lyrics to a Taking Back Sunday song, and drums really add to it. John picked up on what he was saying and didn't have any reason to object. They were both good, so why shouldn't they have a good singer and drummer to accompany them?

So they held auditions in Greg's small garage one afternoon when his parents were out of town, therefore meaning the car was out the way, leaving room for a fold-out table and chair set for John and Greg to sit and make notes as if this was some kind of talent show (except it kind of was, though, wasn't it?). There were definitely interesting options available. After hearing them play on a video filmed with John's cheap phone camera they posted online when they tried to get people to come audition, no one really believed they were two fifteen-year-olds whose biggest audience had been a bundle of family members around the holidays.

After two hours of writing names that had potential, both of them were tired and hungry and ready to call it a day, since the sun was starting to set, anyway. There were these two guys (a nineteen-year-old singer and a seventeen-year-old drummer) who were pretty good, except there was no connection between them or to John and Greg. They didn't really fit the bill of what kind of music they wanted to play, but they supposed that was their fault because they didn't know how to explain what they wanted to play without sounding like they wanted to copy other bands.

They were just about to get up and put everything away, they heard two voices, one feminine voice saying, "Wait, wait, wait," as if it were one quick word, and another, deeper voice yelling at the same time, "Oi, hold on a minute!"

When they walked in, John realized that there was a girl running in with drumsticks and a boy helping her pull in her drums to the center of the room.

"Hey," Greg said, easing back into his chair, John following suit. There was a glint in Greg's eyes that John had yet to see, and he trusted it. Greg saw something, and John would be lying if he didn't see what he meant.

The girl was the one auditioning, but the boy stayed and watched, leaning against the side of the garage. When he tried to attempt it at first, he didn't look to see that he wasn't quite aligned with the side of the garage and nearly fell into one of Greg's mother's prized rose bushes, and he blushed bright red from his cheeks to his ears and leaned correctly, hoping no one noticed, even though everyone did. Greg and John smiled at him and bit their lips, and the girl glared at him for already embarrassing them.

"What's your name?" John asked the girl.

"Sally Donovan," she answered confidently. Sally had a mess of long, tight brown curls and pretty dark skin and eyes, dressed in dark jeans and a baggy flannel layered over a tight black tank-top.

"And what's your name, mate?" Greg yelled across to the boy, who blinked and pointed at himself to ask if he meant him, and Greg smiled again and nodded.

"Oh, I'm not auditioning. I just helped bring the drums," he answered instead of giving his name, his voice trailing off at the end.

"But what's your name?" Greg asked anyway.

"He's Dimmock. Micheal Dimmock," Sally said for him before he could stutter out anything else.

"What are you going to play, Sally?'

"'My Own Worst Enemy' by Lit," she said.

John gasped, suddenly looking at Greg and pointing at him. "That was one of our first duets, do you remember?"

Greg looked like he was in music heaven, and he hadn't even heard her play yet. "Yeah, I remember. Hey, Sally, how about you play the drums and we'll play with you? Dimmock, do you know the song?" he abruptly asked. John figured this was just Greg keeping him included so he didn't have to just stand silently and awkwardly the whole time. But then he made a strange decision that even had John surprised.

"Yes . . . ?" DImmock answered.

"Great. Do the vocals for us?"

"What?" Dimmock and Sally said simultaneously, John nearly saying it, too, but he didn't want to discourage the poor lad.

"I don't sing. I've never sung before. I can't."

"See, you just contradicted yourself. How do you know you're bad if you've never sung before? Just do it to keep us in line, so that we're all together."

Greg nudged John in the side, who played along just because Greg told him to. He trusted that he saw something in both of them. "Uh, yeah," John said. "Song works best with singing, and we'll all be busy playing instruments. We won't make fun of you, promise."

Dimmock dubiously accepted the request after some silence, only with Greg and John's smiles encouraging him.

Then they performed the song, and Dimmock and Sally were amazing. They were the ones, John and Greg knew by the middle of the song after an exchanged knowing look. Dimmock didn't seem very confident in himself, but after the first few lines of the song, it was like a voice in his head that had never spoken before told him he was good, and there was honestly nothing like seeing the smile on his face for the first time as he realized there was something he was good at.

So he and Sally were accepted into the band, of course.

And that's how they became Doll's Minor.

It wasn't immediate success, what with them all being fifteen, but they wrote a few songs and got a few local gigs until at one gig, they had no idea they were being listened to by the woman who would change their lives. Her name was Judith Chester, and she owned a record label. A big one. She stumbled upon them by accident, not knowing they would be playing at this particular bar. It took a battle within her mind to decide if she would risk it, until she finally made up her mind, and all of this was unbeknownst to the band.

"Who else knows what teenagers like better than four attractive, talented teenagers?" she asked them rhetorically after she called them to her office.

"A-are we the four teenagers?" Greg asked, his mouth slightly agape. She laughed, but it didn't quite register with John. Nothing was. He couldn't believe this.

"Yes, you're the four teenagers."

And that was how they got signed to a record label, and things took off, only a year after the band had formed.

It all happened so quickly after this. They got a music video, they got bigger shows, they actually got a record. A real CD that people could actually buy. They were all wondering when they were going to wake up.

Their first really big show was another year later on their first tour in Manchester. John remembered the euphoria after he got off the stage, as the crowd's cheering faded as he got further backstage, but he could still hear them in his mind, and he couldn't stop smiling. He sat in the bus with Sally and Greg and joked around for a while until Dimmock came back a few hours later, sat down with a blank face and said the words like he couldn't believe it, "I just lost my virginity."

The four were silent for a few seconds until they all started laughing riotously.

"Aren't guitarists supposed to get the girls?" Sally teased in Greg's direction.

"I do get the girls. Now if I could just get the guys . . ."

"I'll take either," John inputted. "But not right now."

And it was the truth. His life was fantastic right now, and he wasn't concerned with a boyfriend or girlfriend like he'd imagined he would be at eighteen. He was fine alone for now.

But that changed four years later when John was still alone. Sally had been with her boyfriend, Philip, since she was fifteen (they got together two weeks before she auditioned), and they were bound to be engaged at this point. Dimmock had been dating this sweet, pretty blonde, Abigail, for a month or so now, and they suited each other well and were very happy together. Greg was technically single, but he had a different guy climbing off the bus looking satisfied every day. John would stare as the stranger left, but they didn't look at him, and then John would get in to find Greg dressed in only a black dressing gown.

So maybe he didn't want to be alone anymore. But who would be able to take his lifestyle? Who would take him?

xxx

Sherlock looked out the window, checking obsessively back and forth for any sign of the mail.

"Sherlock, it'll only seem longer if you sit there like that," his mother chastised, her hands on her hips as she watched her son sit on his knees in the window seat with his hands placed on the glass like a child.

"What am I supposed to do, then? I won't be able to do anything until I get that letter," he nearly snapped. His nerves were on edge and had been since he auditioned. His violin had never been played like that before and was still in shock that its owner was capable of such a piece.

"I know, but at least sit decently. You're making me nervous."

He let out a long-suffering sigh, but sat down on the couch, still with a clear view out the window and to the mailbox. His mother was chattering on about something that he couldn't focus on because all he was currently was a bundle of nerves. He couldn't even drink the tea his mother made for him and set in front of him. When had she gone to make that? When had she left? How much time had passed? Was the mail here yet?

His father walked in casually with a stack of letters in his hand, as if he wasn't holding Sherlock's future in his hand.

"I got the mail," he announced, like this was an everyday thing. Well, it was an everyday thing, but not today.

Sherlock sprung up from the couch, jumped over the ottoman with the help of his long, graceful legs and ran over to his father. His mother rushed in, too, saying, "Let's see it, then."

"Is there anything for me?" Sherlock asked at the same time.

"Hold on. Good God, Sherlock, calm down. Is the letter for your violin thing supposed to be here?"

Just as Sherlock began to explain that his "violin thing" was his audition to his first choice university, where he would learn to play his violin for money, the phone rang, and his mother ran to answer it.

His father sorted through the letters several times. "There's nothing for you, Sherlock."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I've looked five times already," he said, showing Sherlock the letters for proof.

"Sherlock," came his mother's voice. He whipped around, and she held up the phone for him, mouthing that it was the university. He walked over and took it, wondering what this could mean.

He held the phone up to his ear. "Hello?"

"Mr. Holmes?" a young female voice said.

"Yes," he said.

There was nothing to worry about, he reminded himself. His grades were perfect, his playing was perfect. They were only calling to tell him he got in. Right?

"You should know that you're the only one we're calling. You were far too special for a default letter with your name filled in at the top." She laughed nervously. "We're very sorry."

Sherlock's heart sank, and he suddenly felt like he needed to sit down. "Why?" he asked, trying to sound as professional as possible. His 'oh, no, it's all perfectly fine' voice.

"We accept a certain number of students who meet certain criteria. You were extraordinary in all aspects, Mr. Holmes, but we don't think you're ready. You were one of the last decisions we made, we just didn't know what to do with you. I don't want to tell you that there were other auditions that were better, but . . ."

In other words, that was exactly what she meant.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. Obviously because of her age, they'd saddled her with giving the bad news to him.

"It's fine," Sherlock mumbled. Now is when he should have said something like, "Thank you for considering me," or something equally as gross, but he just hung up. Before either of his parents could ask what that was about, he ran upstairs, slammed the door, and locked it. He wasn't mad at his parents, of course, but he wanted to let them know how it went without being forced to say it out loud.

He slid down the door of his room, and began to cry into his knees. Sherlock rarely cried. He couldn't remember the last time he cried. But these tears came without warning and with no intention to stop anytime soon. He was supposed to celebrate tonight. He knew that his parents had already planned something, and Mycroft was going to visit, and tonight Molly had gotten tickets to a concert to some famous band that Sherlock didn't listen to.

So he decided not to tell Molly yet. He'd go to this stupid concert with stupid musicians who didn't have to lift a finger to be successful, and he would endure it and try to forget about today. Stupid, stupid music.


	2. Pretty Boys

_**The Making Of A Primary Color**_

* * *

 **Chapter Two: "Pretty Boys"**

* * *

Sherlock forced himself to get ready for whatever Molly had planned for tonight. Maybe he would tell her at the end, just so all her money wouldn't be wasted. Normally he wouldn't care if he canceled at the last minute, but this was Molly. Hurting her feelings may as well be the same as spitting on a puppy. She'd had a crush on him for years, but after finding out he was gay, she let up, although he felt as if it still lingered beyond her control.

Even so, Molly remained a very close friend who would listen to Sherlock, and even if she ran out of words of comfort, she would sit with him and rub his back or something. Usually Sherlock wasn't one for physical contact, but right about now he embarrassingly longed for a hug from someone. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a hug. Probably some family member at a holiday get-together who he hadn't seen for an entire year, sometimes more.

It must have been his attitude. It was known to put people off, in the worst ways possible. But he'd really tried to not be himself for the interview and audition. Perhaps that was it, then. They saw through his little gimmick and saw him as even worse than he already was, saw a fake.

There were other universities, Sherlock knew. But rejection was taking its toll on him and trying its best to remind him that he can't do anything, that he's not good enough for any university at all. Sherlock attempted to remain positive and logical by telling himself louder than the other voice in his head that he could get into Oxford if he wanted to; that's where his brother went. Except he didn't want to be some Oxford graduate rich man. He just wanted to do what he loved. But he'd always had a feeling that the harsh reality of the world would forbid him from doing so, forcing him into some day-to-day job that he hated and would never be remembered for.

After a few hours of moping in his room, there came a soft rapping at his door before his mother opened it and poked her head in, stepping into the room and finding Sherlock. Pity flooded her face as she saw her son's tear-streaked cheeks and puffy eyes, her bottom lip even jutting out slightly. She didn't ask what happened, instead sauntering over and nudging one of Sherlock's long, skinny legs to tell him to sit up so she could sit on the edge of the bed with him.

Sherlock sat up, sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed as his mother took her place on the edge as intended. She talked for a while, Sherlock mechanically responding when it was absolutely necessary. Not much of what she said registered with Sherlock, even though he knew that her words held weight and that she knew what she was talking about, being a well-educated and intelligent woman herself, but he couldn't endure a pep talk right now. When she was done, she kissed his cheek and offered to make him some tea, but he refused./p

He went about the rest of his day like a zombie, meandering about just to stay out of his room because his parents didn't want him to go back there. They scolded him only lightly when he didn't eat dinner, but honestly, he felt sick, and he had felt sick since that stupid phone call.

He also tried to listen to the band he would be seeing tonight, but his mind drifted elsewhere, and he knew that by tonight he would know no songs at all, which was perfectly fine with him, just as long as the deafeningly loud music and fans could take his thoughts away from the state they were in now.

Molly arrived at 6:30 with a bright, and freshly applied, red-lipped smile, her light brown hair pulled into side braid, swinging away happily as she bounced up his driveway and cheerily knocked on the door.

Sherlock failed to dress as presentable as she was, not changing his usual style at all, which consisted of thin, dark colored button-ups, dirty Converse, and black jeans with a few dress pants here and there. He ran his fingers through his curls and fluffed them a bit, shaking them down when he was done and deciding that was the end of it.

Molly chirped a "Hi!" when Sherlock came out, taking in his appearance and accepting it. Sherlock could wear a potato sack and she'd think he looked great, though.

Sherlock forced a tiny smile and wrapped his blue scarf around his neck loosely. "Let's go," he said, sounding as happy as he possibly could.

xxx

"Guess what," Greg said upon entering the tour bus and putting his toes on the siderail of the bunk below John's so he could rest his elbows on John's mattress.

"What?" John asked, not bothering to guess.

"Management's been talking, and you might be dating one of the singers of Dawn Aligned soon."

John groaned, burying his face in his pillow. It wasn't the first time they'd tried this, but it never stopped being annoying. The girl Greg was talking about, Sammie or something, John had never even met, and she probably felt the same way. He understood what management was doing: a girl from a pop girl band and a bass player from pop-punk band; it got a new set of fans for each band. Still, when John said he was lonely, he didn't mean a fake relationship. In fact, a fake relationship actually ruined his chances even further.

"If you're unhappy about it, take it up with Marshall," Greg said. This was a bit of an inside joke within the band. Marshall Hampton was their manager, and he never listened to a damn thing any of them ever said. To him, they were puppets. Puppets who earned him a lot of money, so of course these particular puppets couldn't have a very loose leash. They'd ruin everything, supposedly, if they did their own thing.

"You know these fans, Greg. They'll figure out it's fake. They figure everything out." Which John was grateful for. It wasn't that he liked his entire personal life to be known on the Internet by anyone who cared to find out, but if they didn't buy into this kind of thing, then it didn't really work out.

"They'll only believe it's fake because they want us to date," Greg teased.

"Piss off," John said, lifting his face from the pillow and throwing it at Greg, who caught it and laughed.

"Maybe I'll write my own Johnstrade fan fiction. 'Greg knows that he secretly loves John, but John won't admit his real feelings.' That's the description. It'll start out with us talking for a little bit. Then it'll just be hardcore porn for the rest of it."

John rolled his eyes and climbed down from the bunk, and Greg jumped back down beside him. "Shouldn't you be getting ready, anyway?" John questioned.

He shrugged in response. "No one else is yet."

"But you're the vainest of all of us."

John supposed Greg had a right to be vain, though. He was pretty much the one everyone thought was the hottest. Over the years, he gotten both of his arms completely covered in tattoos and the side of his neck tattooed, and stretched the earrings he'd had since he was twelve big enough so he could put in small tunnels, and he had clear, tan skin and chocolaty eyes and brown hair that was always styled in some way with just the right amount of hair gel.

Meanwhile, John didn't really have any of that. Greg had tried to convince him to get something pierced or tattooed because everyone else did. Sally had her ears and tongue pierced and a small tattoo on the side of her hand near her thumb, and Dimmock had the smallest nose stud he'd been able to get ("Get a 16 gauge if the 14's too big." "18 gauge, then." "20 gauge." "Goddammit, Dimmock, they don't get much smaller than a 22."), even though you couldn't really see the gold hoop until you got up close to him.

But John was still attractive. He had dark ash blonde hair and blue eyes, and for whatever reason, girls found his shortness and compactness cute, where John had never liked it. Actually, he'd spent most of his teen years waiting for one last growth spurt to bless him and make him not have to get on the tips of his toes to do some things. But it never came, much to his dismay, so he remained at 5'6".

As they began to walk off the bus, John brought it up again.

"Why is it only me who gets set up with people?"

"Well, with the amount of kissing pictures of Philip and Sally out there, they can't hide that, and everyone loves Abigail."

"What about you?"

"Every band needs a man-whore," Greg said, and John wondered if this was really the thought process of management. "So that leaves you. Of all the puppets, your strings are the tightest."

xxx

Sherlock was fine. He's fine as can be and would appreciate it if Molly would stop asking. She asked him several times on the way there, once when they got there, and this total stranger in the restroom stopped Sherlock at one point and said, "You all right there, mate?" Yes. Yes, he was. In fact, right now he was surprised his lips didn't start to split at the corners and bleed with how big his smile was that he was trying so hard to pull off, maybe as punishment for having a fake smile and a bad acting job.

The band was okay. The singer obviously had some confidence issues, even at this point in the game of success, and the guitarist seemed too flirty with the adult men in the crowd for his own good, but other than that, they were pretty good. The bassist didn't seem to fit in at first with his blonde hair and tattoo-less skin and piercing-free face, but once Sherlock saw him joke around with the other band members and interact with the crowd without saying a word and still getting them to scream, Sherlock saw that he did fit with the rest.

His eyes remained fixated on him the whole time, he found. Something about the young man's energy reminded Sherlock of what he wanted without making him want to sulk all alone again, like every other piece of music had been doing. He couldn't even look at his violin. He put it in its case and put it in his closest shortly after the call, as if that would make him forget all about it.

Once the show ended, Molly was reunited with Sherlock, and she excused herself by saying that she was going to go to the bathroom really quickly before they left, so Sherlock sat on the curb and waited for her, where about a hundred (very loud) people were also, and Sherlock had to look up to see what the big deal was until he saw that a couple of the band members were outside, conversing with fans and taking pictures with them like they were lifelong friends. Sherlock turned back around and decided he didn't care. Instead, he traced his fingers on the pavement, leaning back.

But that was precisely the moment John became interested by the sight of him.

Flashing lights of cameras clicking and the harsh lighting of the streetlights danced in the reflection of his eyes, but John saw no light of his own in his eyes. Dark brown curls adorned his sculpted face and somehow allowed his neck to look even longer and elegant than it already was. He sat off to the side, and if this were a party, John would see him nursing a drink and staring down into it as if it held some kind of answer out on the roof or something. But he had nothing to stare at now, not even a phone he could fiddle around with and try to look busy.

"Not having a good day?" John asked him, coming up behind him.

The boy (man? Guy? Fan? Angel?) didn't uncross his arms, but he regarded John by looking him up and down, his face unreadable.

"No," he said.

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Well, that's what you usually say to a person when they tell you something like that," John said with a smile, linking his hands together and squeezing them nervously and biting his lip.

The boy-man-guy-fan-angel continued to stare at John, now focusing on his hands and what they were doing, and John couldn't move them because he knew that they were being watched, and now they were starting to get sweaty and sticky.

"You've got fans waiting on you over there, you know," he finally said, tilting his head to the side slightly.

John slid his hands apart and clapped once, then rubbing his hands together, trying not to appear grossed out by the sweat, even though he probably already noticed. "I'm too interested in your bad day. I've got all night to talk to people."

"No, you don't."

"Then we should probably get to it." John sat down in front of his cross-legged with his hands on his knees and looked up at him like a child waiting for a bedtime story. "What's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

John nearly asked him if he was lying, but the glare he received when he smiled and nearly laughed told him all he needed to know. Sherlock was his name, then. Sherlock. Would that even roll off his tongue correctly? He tested it out quietly, almost under his breath. He accustomed himself to the name, got used to it as if he would be saying it often.

"What's yours?" Sherlock asked.

John blinked a few times, having never been asked that at one of his own shows before. Yes, bass players were sometimes overlooked, but he'd gotten lucky and was generally recognized. He cleared his throat and raised one of his eyebrows. "John. John Watson," he answered, and it sounded like a question, like he wasn't sure if that was really his name.

"You assumed I already knew your name," he said.

"Well, you are at my show." He tried a smile, but lost it when it wasn't returned.

"I'd never heard of your band until tonight. A friend of mine bought tickets for both of us. It was supposed to be a celebration."

"And this celebration," said John. "Is it why you're having such a bad day?"

"In a sense. The reason for the celebration was ruined."

"What was the reason?" John questioned.

Sherlock went quiet, and his eyes darkened and narrowed. Obviously, it was the wrong thing to say. Seeing Molly try to push her way through the crowd, Sherlock grabbed the thin bag from beside him, slung it over his shoulder, and stood up, readying himself to walk away.

"I'd rather not talk about it," he said, already about to turn his heel.

"Well, hold on. You don't have to talk about it," John offered, pushing himself up to his feet, dusting off whatever had latched onto him from the ground.

"Learn not to pry, John," Sherlock said, beginning to saunter away, but John gently grabbed his arm, and surprisingly, that was all it took for Sherlock to stop and look at him.

"I'm not prying. Sensitive subject, I assume. I won't bring it up again, promise."

"My friend's right over there," Sherlock protested, pointing to the sea of people.

Then, an idea struck John. "You know, I get a lot of hugs at this time when people leave. No one would think anything of it," he said.

Slowly, Sherlock uncrossed his arms, looking around him at the people who were really paying no attention apart from a few shy fans admiring John from afar and debating whether they should approach him or not, which Sherlock found a bit strange. John was a very approachable person, and he was just a man like every other man.

Against the stronger part of Sherlock's brain, he slid into John's open arms and melted into his embrace, breathing in the scent of a man who'd just gotten off stage after being in a stuffy, cramped backstage area. Sherlock dropped his head onto John's shoulder, which was less awkward than he thought it would have been because of the ridiculous height difference they had going on.

John's arms enveloped him in a warm, comforting hold that Sherlock had desperately needed, and now he actually felt a bit better. Okay, a lot better. But it wasn't like Sherlock expected anything else from John. By tomorrow, he'll be miles away, perhaps listening to another person's bad day and hugging dozens of other fans, ones who were more polite and excited to see him.

John wasn't sure how long he stood there holding Sherlock, but when he started to hear murmurs between two people (the parts he picked up were, "Who's that guy with John Watson? He's _beautiful_ ," and "I wonder if that's his boyfriend"), he decided it was probably time to pull away. Sherlock must have heard it, too, because his eyes snapped open—he'd shut them? When?—and he pulled away, clearing his throat, which burned with an odd sensation Sherlock nearly associated with another round of tears threatening to break loose because of all the ranting and comforting, but he pushed the tears as far back as he could.

"Thank you," Sherlock said in a strained voice. "That's what you're supposed to say, right?"

"Yeah," John answered, already wanting to hug the adorable little bastard again.

"Sherlock?" came a small, feminine voice, and Sherlock walked over to the girl, quickly walking away, and she was going after him, whispering things like, "What was that? Was he flirting with you? It looked like flirting. Wow."

John laughed at the sky and then went on to meet more fans.

Walking home, right as Sherlock thought, He won't even remember me, John thought to himself, I'll never forget him.


	3. Take Me Home

_**The Making Of A Primary Color**_

* * *

 **Chapter Three: "Take Me Home"**

* * *

Over the next few days, John found himself thinking about the weird boy with the weird way of speaking who happened to give great hugs more so than he originally thought he would. It wasn't unusual that a person he met at a show would stick with him; some of their personalities were too unforgettable. But this was different. He'd be on stage, and would randomly wonder out of nowhere, I wonder what Sherlock Holmes is doing right now.

Yes, John had found an Instagram account, and no, he was not a stalker. He just got curious and figured it wouldn't be hard to find him on any social media with a name like that and looked it up quickly, explored a few posted pictures and photos he was tagged in and left. It wasn't like he'd gone 100 weeks in and liked every picture after following him, although Sherlock was apparently following him. As of the night they officially met, actually. There was a picture of him and Molly at the show, but no mention of what band it was or who he'd spoken to afterwards.

There were more pictures and videos of his instrument than himself, John noticed, but it wasn't an instrument John was familiar with. John didn't need a bow to play the kind of bass he played, which wasn't the kind of bass Sherlock was used to. John found himself entranced by the fifteen-second clips of him playing solemn melodies on his violin like a professional. Then there were photos of it, like one of a violin case, a new one, apparently (it was captioned "A new case for my baby"), and then there were pictures of him at school shows or whatever he was in, standing with other kids with orchestral instruments, all girls clad in fancy black dresses with their hair in loose chignons if the length allowed it, and the boys in white dress shirts with bow ties that Sherlock always tied more freely on his neck than the others, like he was ready to take it off as soon as he was done.

Plus, John noticed there was a boy, a cello player, who was next to Sherlock in almost every one of these group pictures. John had to sift through several of the boy's selfies on his account, but then he found Sherlock popping up in a few. They were innocently captioned ("Going to see Whiplash with my favorite person!" "He's so adorable," "Wishing my love good luck tonight!"), but there were pictures with an arm around Sherlock's waist or pictures of them obviously lying in a bed together, and John found one of them kissing. It was a sweet little peck with their lips both exaggeratedly puckered and they were smiling through it, captioned with some sappy alternative band's lyrics and several hearts after the lyrics, but still. Kissing.

The pictures and captions, and Sherlock's comments on the pictures, started to get a bit flirty last year and actually started to refer to Sherlock as his boyfriend a few weeks later. Then they carried on for like four or five months before stopping. Then came the sad pictures with the depressing lyrics and despairing quotes, and John figured that was the end of that. The cello player had a new boyfriend now (who wasn't nearly as cute as Sherlock, John added in without realizing), but Sherlock didn't. He had the occasional comment on a picture of him asking him why he was so perfect, but they were all from girls in Iowa or boys in Australia or somewhere equally as far.

Not that that meant John was going to go for him. He couldn't. Besides, Sherlock was back in London right now while John was in Ireland. Except when the tour ends, John will be back home in his lovely London flat . . . God, he was pathetic. Here he was, a twenty-two-year-old man with a £4,000,000 net worth, fawning over a guy he'd only met once like a teenager. He may never see Sherlock again, anyway.

There were five more shows to play, an interview in Leeds, some songwriting with Greg because they'd been neglecting to do so, and then he'd be free to go home for a while. His flat was spacious and charming, with primarily black and white minimalist decor that his close family members who didn't care to tell him that it didn't seem very "him" when they visited. John was a warm person whose room growing up tended to be messy, but not too messy, and painted invitingly, with posters hanging on the walls and stacks of DVDs and CDs lined against them.

Now his room barely had anything in it. At least, not in the sense that he had a tower of movie cases in front of his TV to hold up the RCA cables of a gaming system that kept shorting out, like he did as a teenager. He had his bed, his dresser, a nightstand with a light, some art, and a floor-to-ceiling window that gave a great view of the city. It looked cold, he thought, like it belonged to an unhappy person.

John was very happy, honestly, and was a nice, good person. The only thing he needed to fix the problem, according to his mum, was another person living with him.

"Well, it's just so lonely, Johnny," she'd said the first time she visited, her jacket pulled tight around her like the place thoroughly creeped her out, but then her face lit up like she'd had some kind of revelation. "Oh, I know what would make it better! Since it is your first time living on your own and it's so big and far away from me, you should get a flatmate."

That had led to a conversation interrogating John about his love life and when he was planning on getting married and whether or not he planned on having kids for her to spoil. John would mumble something like "I don't know," or "Maybe," to her questions sheepishly, shying away from the fact that he didn't have anyone remotely interested in him. Then, after he reminded her that he was only twenty, she patted his shoulder and said, "Of course," a sad look in her eyes as if she knew the truth.

He understood why she was so upset. When John moved out, it left her alone. He was her only son, born when she was only eighteen to a boy who'd abandoned them and cut off contact to them after he was born. He'd basically been raised by his grandparents for the first few years of his life while his mother went to university, but after that, it'd been fine. They'd done well, but now she had no one to fuss over or wake up for school or make sure he cleans his room.

John would love to give her a son-in-law or daughter-in-law and some grandchildren, but for one, he was too young, and also he didn't have anyone. It'd be good to start a relationship right now, now that he was just now growing into a full-fledged adult and could financially take care of himself and another person.

His last real relationship had been a year ago, with a girl named Lainey. She'd been beautiful and smart and kind, but John's career was too much for her to take, resulting in her ending things after seven months. After her, it'd been a few dates and one-week flings here and there, but nothing like what would fill the void that had formed in John's chest that had accumulated over the past few years.

So, for whatever reason, John voiced his concerns.

"Are you seriously worried about dying alone because you haven't dated anyone in a few months?" was Sally's response.

"Try online dating or something. Just don't, you know, mention how rich or famous you are," was Dimmock's response.

"Chat up that boy you keep looking at," was Greg's response and the last one John was going to hear.

The boy he was referring to was Sherlock, after he'd decided to stop being a thirteen-year-old and followed the damn Instagram account, and Greg had taken notice of him during one of their songwriting sessions. It was a slow day. They'd gotten one song written, and now they were just dabbling with random lyrics and intros, which wasn't going anywhere. After some hesitation, John showed him a picture of Sherlock and asked what he thought of him. Not that he wanted to know what Greg thought of his looks, but usually if he said, "Looks like a prat," or "I don't trust his face," it meant something and was correct.

Greg scrutinized the picture. "Cute," he finally said. "Wait, isn't that the guy you were talking about after the London show?"

"Yeah. Sherlock." John shrugged. "He's nice."

"Nice?" Greg snorted. "You've been mooning over him all week. Talk to him."

It wasn't the first time the suggestion had been made and wouldn't be the last. John was looking at a new picture of him that he'd just pointed when Sally had been walking by, who rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, my God, just talk to him," like it was the easiest thing in the world.

John tried to talk to Dimmock about it because he was a shy guy who couldn't talk to girls for anything, but he had a girlfriend, so it made sense. But when John expressed his feelings about the situation, he'd just shrugged and said, "Talk to him."

No one seemed to understand how daunting the task was. Okay, maybe it wasn't so daunting. Scary as hell, maybe, but that was advanced as an adjective it received. John finished the shows, the interview, and got some songwriting done, and still hadn't spoken to Sherlock, even after coming home. He'd decided not to speak to him at all, but fate had decided that was unacceptable.

It was late at night, and John was walking around with sunglasses on. Greg said he looked like a complete arsehole, and that the grey beanie he had on only made it worse, but he didn't want to be recognized. He fucking hated sunglasses, anyway; you can't see a thing. He'd gone out to dinner and walked the streets a bit afterwards, since it was a thing he'd always loved to do ever since he was a child. Granted, now he had more freedom as to where he could go and where he could go, but still, walking calmed him down.

John had just opened his car door to get in and go home, when he saw a familiar head of curls bouncing away, a long black coat swishing behind him. No way, was John's first thought and almost ignored it, passing it off as seeing it only because he wanted to and that he was only associating it with Sherlock because of the hair. And the gait. And the shoes. And, hey, that kind of looked like his cheekbones.

On a whim, John closed the car door and tried to catch up to the person, although keeping his distance in case it wasn't actually him, because what were the odds, really? But then he saw the side of his face. Yep, definitely Sherlock. He was bent over his phone, typing away, closed in on himself, which made him look even thinner than he already was.

"Uh, hey," John said with that romantic-comedy _have we met?_ voice, after he'd fully caught up with Sherlock.

Sherlock, however, didn't even turn around and began walking away, quickly. "No," he said shortly.

He probably deserved that for thinking that trying to talk to a boy this late in London was a good idea.

"No, wait," John tried.

"No, I don't need a ride. No, I don't have any change. No, I don't want to talk or get to know you better. No, I—" Sherlock stopped mid-word, his mouth prepared to form the word "don't", John presumed, when he saw who was talking to him. "Oh. It's you."

John had taken off the sunglasses and hung them on the V of his shirt, left with the beanie that weighed down his hair against his forehead in straight blonde locks. These things were much more suited to features like Sherlock's, where the curls could stick out adorably. John only wore it to hide his identity. "Kind of harsh. Not even a quarter or two?"

Sherlock sent one final text before stuffing the phone in his coat pocket. "What are you doing here?"

"Stalking you," John said, and it was obviously too soon for sarcasm in this relationship because Sherlock looked mildly alarmed. "Not really. I was just taking a walk. We just got home yesterday."

"Oh, is your tour thing done?"

John snickered. "Yes, the 'tour thing' is done," he said. "What about you? Recover from your bad day?"

"I'm learning to accept it and move on," he answered.

A silence fell upon them, only the sounds of passing cabs and cars filling it. They stared at each other, eyes locked in a transfixed manner, and John saw the lights of the city once again reflected in his light eyes. Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke.

"I've been listening to your band," he said. "You're good."

Yes, Sherlock had been listening to them. And watching interviews and live performances and YouNow's and other things he thought he couldn't be bothered to do a few weeks ago, before he'd met John Watson. It was a silly little teenage crush that had come late instead of when he was fifteen like it was supposed to. He knew there was no chance between them, but it was fun to fantasize about and sometimes quite humorous at just how ridiculous he was being.

John beamed, still finding it hard to believe that there were actual human beings who listened to his music and thought it was good. "Yeah? Thanks." Should he compliment Sherlock's violin skills, or would that come off as creepy? Ah, hell, what did he have to lose? "You know, I saw your violin playing. It's amazing."

Sherlock smiled, and it actually looked sad. A sad smile. Fuck, he'd said something wrong. "I'm glad someone thinks so," Sherlock said, the words not sounding right with his deep, confident voice. "But it's not like I'm going to be a professional player or anything."

"Hold on, you're _not_?" John asked, incredulous. So many talented musicians didn't want to do it for a living because of monetary concerns or the fear of failing, but John had never done that. He'd known almost from the beginning that he was going to be a bass player professionally and that he was going to be successful at it. He wouldn't accept it any other way. But for Sherlock, this boy who had resoluteness and talent shining so brightly, it bewildered him to think he wasn't going to go for it.

"No, there are other things I'm good at. I mean, honestly, do you think I'm going to spend all that money on a music school with the risk that I might not even make it?"

John gestured to himself. "If I can make it, anyone can. I'm not anything special, and look at me now, I made it."

"People like you, though. It's not just about talent anymore; you have to be likable."

"You are likable."

Sherlock laughed humorously at the notion. "You'd be surprised. In fact, someone called me insufferable just earlier today. That's a new one."

"Well, Sherlock, I don't think you're insufferable. I think you're special and talented and likable, and maybe you really don't want to be a violinist, but if you do, don't let anything stop you." He paused. "Now, in all seriousness, do you need a ride home?"

Sherlock grinned at him. "Is that safe? Letting one's stalker know where they live?"

"If they're a good stalker, they already know."

"No one's going to take my picture with you and post it online, are they?"

"I don't think they will," John answered seriously. Sherlock hadn't intended it as a serious question, but it was an actual concern that could happen. To ensure it didn't happen, John took his sunglasses and put them on as he and Sherlock turned around and walked to his car.

"Sunglasses at night?" Sherlock pointed out.

"Yeah, all this success has really gone to my head."

John pulled out his keys and unlocked his car with the click of a button, the sound leading them to it. He held open the passenger side for Sherlock, who rolled his eyes playfully at the gesture, but got in anyway. John started the car, the radio flicking on and the lights turning on and the heat warming them.

Sherlock was quiet, other than telling John the directions to where he lived. At one point, a Doll's Minor song came on the radio, making John blush as Sherlock laughed at him.

"That's awkward," John said, turning the channel to an 80s station.

"You definitely did that on purpose," Sherlock said, still laughing.

"I did not," John said, and he couldn't help but smile.

"I bet you called in and requested it before I got in."

John reached over and poked Sherlock in the ribs, which only made him giggle louder. So he was ticklish, then. Duly noted.

"I'm going to drop you off here and let you walk the rest of the way."

"Guess what, John."

"Hm?"

"We're here."

"Of course we are," John said, pulling over and stopping. "So that means I can kick you out of my car."

"Bye," Sherlock said, propping the door open, flashing John a quick smile.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."


	4. The Violinist

_**The Making Of A Primary Color**_

* * *

 **Chapter Four: "The Violinist"**

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for the delay, and a happy Halloween!**

* * *

John didn't see Sherlock again for another two weeks, although the memory stayed very fresh in his mind. His mind kept drifting to the scent of his hair and cologne, his smile, his eyes. Him in general. But, of course, he didn't say all of it this out loud because he would look creepy if he appeared this smitten by a boy he barely knew. He at least relayed the message back to his bandmates that he'd seen him again and drove him home, which they commended him on.

Songwriting had been going quite well as of late, too. John and Greg often wrote cryptic lyrics that made the listener think, as they had agreed that made for the best songs. Neither of them liked a lot of songs with meanings that were too obvious, but ones that people took in many different ways. John would admit that he actually liked to go on those song meaning websites on his band's page and read what the comments were, even if they didn't quite get what he had been trying to convey when he wrote the lyrics. There were some interesting theories out there, he would give them that.

For example, some people believe that a song of theirs was a song about a member of another band who people also believed there to be drama with, even though there wasn't really. The guy didn't like them for some reason, yeah, but John would have never written a song about it. If he did write a song about a person he knew who was also famous, he made sure it was extra cryptic so people didn't figure it out. Well, so they didn't figure it out right away.

Except, for the song he was writing right now, John wasn't being too cryptic. Its current working title was "The Violinist", but that would probably change to something long and irrelevant to the meaning because it would be a cool lyric to put somewhere, but John didn't have anywhere else. He would know it was about him; he would have to. It wasn't, in fact, a sappy love song like the title suggested, but a way to express how he was feeling and to let out some of the emotions he was going through right now because they were certainly something. They were a mess, actually, those emotions.

It vaguely described Sherlock, but he would know because of the mannerisms John included in the descriptions. It was very him. Plus, there was going to be a violin part in it. John didn't know how to fit it in just yet, but it was a must for the song. They'd used orchestral instruments in songs before. Not many, but some. They blended better with their sound than one would think. John wondered if Sherlock would play the violin part for him. But that might lead to people talking about them on the Internet, and there were many ways that could go wrong.

Recently, though, Sherlock has stopped posting the violin videos and pictures. The last one posted was a video of him playing this song with a title as confusing and long as one of John's, except it was from, like, the 1700s, and that was a month ago. He also composed some, having posted a picture of several blank pieces of sheet music filled up with handwritten music notes and notes to himself in his loopy, spidery handwriting, and John wished he knew the violin well enough to hear it in his head as he read it.

John wouldn't be able to have an emotional song with no lyrics, and he never understood how a message can be delivered through something without words. He got that it was beautiful and often reflected on the composer's life at the time, but you won't find him crying over a Beethoven piece because it moved him. Maybe it made him look inelegant, but he needed lyrics if he was going to listen to a song and be emotional about it.

But the way Sherlock played was different. It wasn't the music, necessarily, but everything else combined with the music. When he played, realization hit John like a punch to the face every time.

That realization being that he liked this boy so much he couldn't stand it.

xxx

Sherlock walked to orchestra with Molly on his first day back from break. He wasn't looking forward to it, which was something he never thought he'd say about orchestra. But they all knew about the audition and the university. What they didn't know is that he didn't get in. And they were going to ask. And he'd have to tell. Everyone. At once.

The orchestra room fell silent as soon as Sherlock walked in and looked expectant and somewhat excited. Sherlock knew that Joseph (a double bass player) was planning a party at his house to celebrate. Beside him, Molly looked sympathetic and then turned her eyes to the rest of the class to try and warn them not to say anything at all, having told Molly over the weekend and ending up getting upset and embarrassing himself with the amount of emotion he'd been showing to people lately. That was something he saved for when he was alone.

Sherlock merely shook his head at them, seeing their smiles turn confused. "I didn't get in."

Several people gasped, even Elliot looking sensitive and supportive. He and Elliot had stopped communicating as much since they broke up, only talking when they were with other friends and if they had a class together. They didn't text (apart from the occasional What time do we need to be at the auditorium?) or hang out alone together or eat lunch together simply because it was awkward.

Their breakup had been a bit of a mutual thing, but was initiated by Elliot, who gave Sherlock the entire "It's not you, it's me" speech, and Sherlock hadn't yelled at him or cried or tried to argue with him. He just let it happen and moved on, just like he would do with this. Sherlock figured that if something didn't go his way, it just wasn't meant to be. There was no reason to fight for things that weren't meant to be.

"Did they give you a reason?" Joseph asked, incredulous. Sherlock was the best player of any instrument in the entire school, and it didn't exactly fill the others with much hope that he hadn't succeeded.

Sherlock began to answer, but their instructor, Mr. Sinclair, who'd been the one to recommend the university to Sherlock, threw him a sympathetic look (Sherlock was about sick of those), and told everyone to leave Sherlock alone and to get in their seats. Mr. Sinclair was a violinist himself, but had always wanted to teach instead of do it professionally, which Sherlock couldn't understand. He could never be patient enough to be any kind of teacher.

He was an older man with greying hair and small glasses on his shaved face, with a tall, praying mantis-like body and a slight limp from where he'd had knee problems when he was younger. Personally, Sherlock believed he was the best teacher he'd ever had. Teachers didn't usually like Sherlock or pay him much attention apart from when he mouthed off or made straight A's. But on the first day of orchestra, the first words he'd said to Sherlock were, "You don't get noticed very often, do you?" which had made Sherlock freeze and anticipate being lectured on his bad attitude.

He'd heard the rumors about how strict Sinclair was, which he soon learned from the kids who were also in orchestra came from kids who weren't in orchestra and making an arse of themselves in the hall or to one of the orchestra students, because they always came to him if they were being bullied because he took care of it once and for all. When Sherlock told him, "No," he'd told him how he knew he didn't trust people and always got the wrong idea about them, and he was right.

Sherlock quickly became one of his favorites, which no one was really jealous of. In fact, orchestra was the one class that Sherlock wasn't hated in. Even in science, which was his favorite and best class, the kids in there hated him and never wanted to work with him, despite having the highest grade in the class. All of his friends were in orchestra.

Even after Sherlock had taken a seat, he was still receiving stares and questions whispered to him if the person was close enough. He got out his violin and slowly took it out. For once, it was cold. He hadn't been playing over break like he usually did, and this was the first time since the day before the concert, which fell at the beginning of break. He had been wondering if it would hurt to play now or if he would still be any good because his inspiration was gone.

Across the room, Mr. Sinclair sighed, still hearing questioned being asked. "Sherlock, do you want to talk about it?" he announced.

Not really, but they would never rest if he did.

"I can answer a few questions if it means class will be smoother."

"Do you have any backup plans?" was the first one shouted at him from the back of the room, surprisingly from Elliot. Yes, they were on reasonably good terms, but Sherlock just didn't expect him to care about what happened to him after their breakup. He supposed he still cared about what happened to Elliot, too, like he'd probably cry if he died or something.

"Oh, yes. Several. In fact, I'm sure they will be much more easily obtained than a successful music career. Those are very hard to come by. But with a degree in chemistry, it'll be much easier to find a well-paying, stable job more quickly."

Yes, and then he could be just like everyone else. He definitely had a knack for science and could understand a concept in a matter of minutes after being introduced to it, and he did love chemistry, really. But it just couldn't compare to the violin. It would just have to be a hobby, something he did in his free time before confining himself to a dull life of domesticity and repetitiveness.

He wasn't sure if he wanted kids yet. He didn't know if he could handle the responsibility. But even before that, he would need a husband. Having someone else with him would at least make things a little less agonizing, to make things fun and keep things fresh. But Sherlock didn't come across boyfriends easily. He remembered a conversation he had with a violist, Laura, in which he mentioned (or whined about) how no guys liked him. _I have met so many guys who have a crush on you, though,_ she'd said. _Where are they, then?_ he'd responded. _They think you're pretty; that doesn't mean you don't terrify them_ , she said.

Then came along John Watson who'd utterly fucked Sherlock's emotions. It was like having a crush on any band member, when you want to look up pictures of them and draw them and laugh at everything they say. Except you know them in person. It makes things awkward. Because having a real crush and a crush on someone famous feels like two different things, so when blended, it was something new and something confusing.

Of course, no one knew about John and him driving him home and kind of probably flirting. Not even Molly, who seemed to know everything that went on in Sherlock's life these days. This could draw some unwanted attention to himself, he knew. There would be girls on social media split half-and-half, one half in support of him, the other not liking him, all parts trying to learn more about him.

Then when they did find more about him and got to know him as a person, they would all hate him.

Regardless of what John might think, Sherlock really wasn't likable. It takes special people to be able to put up with him, and that supply was very limited. It was easy to fall in love with his talent or looks, but not so much with his personality, and that was important. It was also terrifying. He didn't want to get married to a man who only fell in love with him because of said talent and looks and then hate him otherwise. Someone did once mention to him how he'd be a good trophy husband.

But the thing about John is that Sherlock isn't even sure if it's silly to even be considering these things. He doesn't know whether John really likes him or if he's just looking into things too much and over-analyzing everything he says to him. For all he knew, this could just be what John was like, kind and accommodating to everyone, even if he secretly thinks they're a terrible person and is trying to kill them with kindness before he actually kills them by asphyxiation or multiple stab wounds.

Sherlock was an over-thinker more than anything else he was—and he was a lot of things—and he thought it was a good thing, even if everyone else said his tendencies were unhealthy and potentially dangerous to him. His entire life was a series of 'what if's'.

As it turns out, his playing is still fine. He'd also been worried that now that he knows he's not quite as good as he initially thought, he might hear how he actually sounds and it would be awful. But his playing is the same as it has always been, just lacking the heart it once had, since he's now not thinking about how what he's doing right now is what he's going to be doing for the rest of his life.

Oddly enough, he still doesn't feel like he's doing it in chemistry class, either.

It's not until he gets home that his day takes a turn for the better. Today hasn't been horrible, but it wasn't necessarily good, either. It was one that was in between, one that didn't matter. Until it's five in the afternoon and Sherlock receives a message on Twitter from someone telling him to call them, with a phone number attached. Someone whose name might be John and someone who might have a check mark in a blue cloud telling him that it's real.

He gets his phone and lays back on his bed, listening to the rings and counting them, hoping he doesn't embarrass himself further on this phone conversation. Maybe he sent it to the wrong person. It was an easy mistake. Or maybe someone else had sent it from John's account to mess with him because they knew how much John hated Sherlock.

On the third ring, someone picked up.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes. Hello, John."

"Oh, so you got my message. Was it too creepy? I didn't want to say anything like 'we need to talk' and give you a panic attack."

Sherlock smiled at the ceiling and wondered if his parents could hear him talking on the phone and ask who he was talking to. They knew he texted his three or four friends all day, but a phone call meant either something very good or something very bad.

"No, it wasn't too creepy, although I am confused as to why you would want me to call you when we haven't spoken in two weeks."

"Well, Mr. I-don't-want-to-be-a-professional-violinist, I have a question," John said, and Sherlock sat up in bed, interested. "And I'm sorry I haven't spoken to you sooner."

"Go on."

"There's a song on the new album with a violin part, and I need someone to play it."

Did he hear that correctly? John actually wanted him when there were thousands of more experienced, older violinists who had been doing this their whole life, people who'd been accepted into music schools? This was just a favoritism thing, like picking your best friend for a school project even though you know they're failing the class and have no idea what's going on in class.

"Me? Why?"

"Because you're amazing, and I've got my heart set on you."

Sherlock's heart rate spiked at that sentence, even if John didn't mean it like that. Just hearing him say it sent him reeling. He was definitely in trouble here. And he thinks he might like it.

"What kind of song is it?"

"You've heard us before. You're not really sure what genre to lump it under, but somewhere along the lines of pop-punk-alternative-indie-80s-rock-2005-Myspace music."

"Sounds about right. What I'm asking is what is the song about?"

There is a pause so long that Sherlock asks if John is still there, if his phone died or lost a signal, but he clears his throat and answers anyway.

"Well, I _think_ it's a love song. Sometimes even I don't know what I'm writing about," John says with a nervous little laugh at the end, and Sherlock doesn't know what he's nervous about, but a million theories run through his mind, and none of them are correct, but he doesn't know it because John is staring at the lyrics as they speak, and the whole thing screams Sherlock. The song title should be changed to Sherlock, followed by his name repeated 1,000 times instead of actual lyrics; that's how much this song is about Sherlock.

Sherlock takes a deep breath before saying, "I'll think about it," and John can respect that. He's been piecing a theory together himself and is beginning to believe that his bad mood when they first met was because of something that happened that had to do with the violin.

"All right," John says, and then begins an hour-long, normal conversation with Sherlock that two normal friends would have. Two normal friends who have known each other for years. Two normal friends who want to be more than friends. Two not-so-normal friends who are bound to end up with each other.


	5. The Sherlock And John Thing

**_The Making Of A Primary Color_**

* * *

 **Chapter Five: "The Sherlock And John Thing"**

* * *

 **A/N: T** **his took longer than I'd hoped again, and I'm sorry, but a mild crisis occurred and, well, you get the picture. Theft is never a good idea, friends, don't put someone through that. I have since been reimbursed and should hopefully get back on track now. The time I spent away from this story actually had me work out a lot of future chapters, and I know exactly where it's going now. :)**

* * *

Sally and Philip were kissing in a corner, Dimmock didn't show up after claiming he wasn't the partying type and never had been, and Greg had disappeared with the prettiest boy at the party about ten minutes ago to somewhere quiet and alone where they could . . . well, you get the idea. So that left John, the single one, to fend for himself at this party, where plenty of lesser known men and women were just dying to get their hands on him for fame.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure why he was even at this party. He was like Dimmock in the aspect that he didn't consider himself to be the "partying type", whatever that entailed. He preferred to drink alone. Not here. Actually, though, he _could_ be looking to fix his loneliness problem, but "could" is such an unavailing word. Sure you _can_ do it, but are you? That's the real question, and John had his answer already.

He'd had a talk with Marshall a couple of days ago to rid his head of this whole fake relationship thing with the girl band singer. He said that it was good for there to be a single member in a band because it keeps the fans on their toes with the theories and fan fiction and tabloid news articles and whatnot, and that for him to be single meant better publicity. Or some bullshit like that.

And through a miracle by God's hand, it worked. It didn't take nearly the amount of convincing or lying he thought he'd had to do. He'd planned for an hour-long debate with him on it, but he said that he'd been rethinking it himself and that he wasn't going to do it. Pure fate. Witchcraft, even. Marshall was not a man who changed him mind or had second thoughts often.

So John made his way through the home, giving polite smiles and handshakes to anyone who gave it to him first. He was one of the biggest names there, but definitely not the most famous. There was a little bit of everyone here tonight, but no one who would be completely starstruck upon entering. John would have been a few years ago, until he learned that musicians are exactly like everyone else, except people actually care about what they're wearing or their childhood fears or favorite color.

He finds his way into the main living room, where there are several couches filled with people. Some had drinks in their hands, some had cigarettes, others had chosen something a bit stronger to smoke, while the rest seemed to be on something even stronger than that. Someone with bloodshot eyes offers John a joint, which he politely refuses, and they laugh at him because apparently this isn't the first party they've offered it to him, and he's refused all times.

Across the room, a girl is draped across the couch with a drink in one hand settled between her legs. She tried to invite him in with pink glossy lips and flipping her mousy brown hair over her shoulder. John was going to carefully avoid her, but her friends were posted everywhere, not watching them per se, but would still notice if he brushed her off completely, and that was not something he wanted to do.

Her name was Iris, and she was a musician. Had been for about six years now. The same amount of time John had. But she hadn't been as lucky as he'd been, with the money and the tours and the singles on pop radio while still managing to maintain the usual fanbase. But despite not being very successful, she was somehow very in on the industry and knows a lot about her fellow musician's personal lives. Like, a lot. John still thinks she'd be a better TMZ reporter than a singer.

So she'd heard about his relationship status and how it was up for grabs. He didn't care enough to find out how she knew. No one ever knew.

Meanwhile, Sherlock kept posting pictures of himself and talking to him and texting him. Not that he was the only thing on John's mind at the moment. He checked his phone for any new texts, only to find none. He pocketed his phone and went over to Iris, figuring maybe she'd lose interest if she got to know him, if she decides he's not nearly enough of a risk-taker or reckless enough to be in a band. But that was the truth. She'd get bored with a boy like him.

"John," she greeted warmly, as if they were best friends.

"Hello," John answered, not as warm, a voice you might use when addressing a stranger because that's what they were to each other.

She patted the spot on the couch next to her for him to sit down, which he did, and she was a bit too close. Her thigh was pressed against his, despite there being plenty of room for her to give him some space. He was claustrophobic; he hated when people he didn't know were too close to him or made him feel trapped.

"Are you still on tour?" she asked, making friendly conversation. You know, before she tried to sleep with him.

"No," John answered, stopping the flat _obviously_ that almost came out after the no. He'd been spending too much time with Sherlock. "We just got back."

"How's writing going, then?" she asked.

"Good. Very good."

This was John's problem with talking to some people. If they didn't click at some point, he would provide one-word responses accidentally and relied on them to supply the conversation material, and that was tiring to anyone, so of course they found an excuse to exit the conversation and move on to the next person, who actually wanted to talk to them.

"Have you visited everyone at home yet? Like your parents or girlfriend?"

There was a deliberate pause between parents and girlfriend. John debated whether or not he should entertain her anyway. She would find a way to get him to talk about it anyway, so there was really no point.

"Yeah. I saw my mum."

"Oh. How was that?"

He shrugged. "Same as always. She hugs me, cooks me dinner, takes pictures to show off on Facebook. The usual."

Iris laughed, but John wasn't trying to be funny. Really, it's what she did. It was a Watson family tradition that had been installed ever since he'd started going on big tours where he'd be far away. "Girlfriend, then?"

"No."

"Are you even still with Lainey?"

"No," he repeated, even though she knew damn well he wasn't still with her. It'd been a year, there'd been news articles, she'd said some things about it in interviews and hinted about it on social media. It was history that everyone knew, like Christopher Columbus sailing the ocean blue in 1492.

She opens her mouth with a grin settling on it, just as John's phone rings. He doesn't know who it is, but he swears he'll kiss whoever it is.

So of course it's Sherlock. One day, maybe.

John tried to pull off a sheepish, apologetic smile and laugh and points to the ringing phone. "I have to take this."

He jumped up and left the room, answering it as he walks out the door, putting his finger in the ear he doesn't have pressed against the phone to block out some of the noise, hoping Sherlock won't think he's busy. "Hello?"

"John," Sherlock said. John goes outside where he saw a pile of clothing lying on the grass and decided to not look in those bushes because God knows what he'll find. He leaned against a nearby tree with his hip and waited for Sherlock to say something else.

"Yeah?" he asked when he was still saying nothing.

"Where are you?" he asked curiously. He must have been listening to the group of loud, drunken people who were now outside, much to John's dismay. Anyone else would have asked 'is this a bad time?', but not Sherlock, apparently. Good. John rather liked his lack of manners. It wasn't that he was rude; he just didn't know the wrong things to say from the right ones.

For instance, a week ago, they hung out at some restaurant Sherlock liked, and John was in his "disguise" (that damn beanie and those sunglasses were starting to grow on Sherlock), but he still got recognized by some girl, and John would have been happy to sign whatever for her, but Sherlock informed her that he was most definitely not John Watson and that her boyfriend was out with her best friend and she needed to call one of them immediately.

He was astonishingly perceptive and pulls it out from time to time if it will benefit him. John would say he would make a good detective if he weren't so keen on music. But it made John nervous. He wondered if Sherlock could tell that he was a total schoolgirl over him. He wasn't dropping hints, but he always talks like an idiot around him and his cheeks turn red faster than a stoplight. But Sherlock blushes a lot, too, actually. He blushes so easily, John could wave and he'd be red in the face.

"Just this awful party. Don't worry about it."

"I wasn't."

"No?"

"Well, you're obviously not having a good time."

John smiled. "I'm really not," he said.

"I'm sure it's not that bad."

"I'm going to take you to one of these one day and let you see how it feels," said John.

"I would actually like that," Sherlock said quietly, like he wasn't sure if he was brave enough to say it or not. Before John could reassure him that he was totally fine with taking Sherlock anywhere he wants to go, literally, he changed the subject. "Well, the reason I called is to tell you that I got the song and listened to it a few times. Very good, by the way. Very . . . interesting lyrics. And I've written the violin part. Or, at least, a rough draft of it."

"The Violinist" was finished (John was pretty sure he was going to keep the title), and he'd whipped up a quick little acoustic track of it just to give Sherlock a general idea of what to compose. He'd even sang in it, which is something he vowed he'd never do again the day he met Micheal Dimmock. He'd gotten better over the years from doing backup during shows, but he still could never be a frontman. But he'd added in cute little jokes and funny side-notes to the audio just for Sherlock.

He'd only given it to him five days ago. The boy works fast. He trusted whatever he had whipped up, so he didn't understand why Sherlock was so stressed about it. He always knew when he was composing because he'd get a thousand texts a minute. ( _Does this chord work with yours? Would that sound good? Are you sure? This is an actual song on the next album? I'll be the one playing it? And this is exactly what you're looking for in this song? You're sure?_ )

Yes, he was sure it was what he was looking for.

"That's great, Sherlock," John smiled.

"Shall I play it right now or send you a video or . . . ?"

"No, I want to hear it in person."

He could almost see Sherlock raise his eyebrows that were a few shades lighter than the hair on his head, leading him to believe he dyed it. Those curls were natural, though. You can't fake curls like those.

"Really? Why?"

"Why not? I want the full experience."

Plus, he wanted to see Sherlock again. He hadn't seen him in about a week, which was pathetic considering he was already missing him terribly, even though he'll be seeing him again most likely soon after hearing it. But it seemed he couldn't get enough of him.

Sherlock's family knew that he was going to be playing for an actual, popular band, but they didn't know the full extent of his relationship with the bassist. He wasn't keeping it a secret or anything; they just assumed that when he said he was going out for coffee, he was going with a friend or going with John only to discuss music like business, not whether Bach or Tchaikovsky would win in a fight.

"You didn't play it for me in person."

"I'll play with you, then."

"You have to sing, as well."

John gave an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh. "Fine."

Sherlock laughed softly, and it was the best thing John had heard all night. The only thing that could sound better than that tonight is "You should be heading home, John," or "Ditch the party, come to my house, and kiss me." He wasn't picky.

"You're not that bad, you know. At singing," Sherlock said.

"But could I be the lead singer?" John asked lightly.

He laughed again. "No."

"Damn. Way to crush my dreams, Sherlock."

"Face it, John. You'll never make it in the music industry."

"I guess I'll never amount to anything."

By now they were both laughing, and John was leaned against the tree trunk with a smug smile set on his face, wishing he could see Sherlock's in person. The pile of clothing suddenly molded into humans who were loosely wearing the clothing (the guy's shirt was inside out and the girl had yet to fully pull down her shirt), and they ran by in a heap of laughter and sloppy, wet kisses, and John actually smiled at them.

"So, tomorrow?"

John snapped out of his trance at the sound of Sherlock's voice. "What? Oh. Yeah. Tomorrow. I can do tomorrow at, like, four. Where do you want to do it?"

"I'll have the house to myself. My house, I mean."

"Oh. Uh . . ."

They've never been to each other's houses. John's never been to Sherlock's because his parents might get weird if he brought home an older, famous bass player with him and went to his room with him, and Sherlock has never been to John's because . . . well, it'd just be weird. But for them to be all alone. That was the weird part. They could control themselves, of course, but alone, with no one else to guide the conversation or for them to listen to when they didn't know what to say.

"Is that not okay?" Sherlock sounded slightly alarmed, worried he'd said something wrong.

Is it okay? John has no idea. The line between okay and not-okay becomes blurred when it comes to Sherlock. John never knows what the fuck he's doing when he's around him. He has this effect on him that makes him forget the basic fundamentals of life and social skills, and it's all one big mess, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice because he's naturally an awkward guy who can't talk to people, so he doesn't get just how inelegant he makes John.

"No, no, it's fine. Just, uh, where do you live?"

And that was that.

xxx

"Okay, what about Fall Out Boy?"

"Met them ages ago. Good guys."

Sherlock had his bare, pale feet pulled under him on the couch, his couch, holding a cup of coffee with both of his hands, and his position reminded John of something from a Christmas commercial, a proud parent watching the kids open their presents and awaiting a piece of expensive jewelry before the commercial ends and it's brought back to reality.

Luckily they're not too close on the couch. There are three cushions on it, and John is on the far left, and Sherlock is in between the right and middle cushion. John had been at his house for the past hour or so, and he was starting to get worried about his parents suddenly coming home at this exact moment and he would have to hide under the couch like something from a sitcom, but Sherlock assured him it was totally fine for him to be there, but he got rather quiet every time John would ask if his parents knew he was there.

Sherlock's song was absolutely mesmerizing. John didn't really get violins; he never thought he would be able to play one himself. But Sherlock sure as hell got them. And not only could he play as well as the day is long, he could compose, too. That meant talent, that meant a future in music. But Sherlock still said he wasn't going to go after it. He was going to stick to what he was good at, according to him.

John was 100% sure Sherlock was at the top of his class, but this is what he's good at, just as good as he is at science.

"Hawthorne Heights?"

"Woah, mate, that's taking it back a little bit far. I stalked those guys on Myspace way before I was in a band."

Sherlock and John accidentally took a sip of coffee at the same time, and they made eye contact over the cups, which was much more intimate than it needed to be.

"Just seeing how long you've been doing all of this," Sherlock said. "Honestly, John, I only know 'Ohio Is For Lovers'."

John mock-gasped. "Wow, you fucking poser," he said, then takes another sip of coffee. It's not bad coffee, but Sherlock clearly is very enthusiastic with the vanilla creamer, and it's more like a very strong, hot cup of chocolate milk than coffee. "Any other bands from this era you want to know about?"

Sherlock considered for a moment. "What the hell is going on with One Direction?"

John laughed. Sherlock didn't know the half of it when it came to that band. "I'd tell you, but Modest Management would have to kill us both."

"I knew they had a lot of secrets." Sherlock looked into his cup, only to find it was empty, so he set it on the coffee table and appeared to not know what to do with his hands now that they were unoccupied. "What about your band? Are your lives run by management? Do you secretly hate each other?"

It was an easy answer, one that actually surprises a lot of people for whatever reason. "No, not us. But you'd be surprised at some of these bands who hate each other. They're good actors."

They never became one of those bands that start out as best friends then slowly drift until they want to asphyxiate one another with guitar strings. It was a fear of John's, he will admit, that they would become of those bands, but they weren't for now, and that was all that mattered, he supposed. Wasn't that the rock and roll lifestyle? To live in the moment? Maybe. He didn't know. What did John know about being a rock star when he was shy around an eighteen-year-old violinist who listens to boy bands and wears polka dot socks?

"Really? So when you say that they're your best friends, they really are?"

They're his only friends, actually.

"Yeah. I mean, I'd be lying if I said I'm not glad to get a break from Greg Lestrade after living on a bus for weeks with him, but everyone would get like that, even best friends. I think Sally even gets tired of her boyfriend if he tags along for a few shows, and they live together in an actual home."

Sherlock is quiet for a little while, and he looks longingly towards the cup on the table like he wants to have it to hide behind. "Can I ask you something personal?"

John nearly chokes on his strong, hot cup of chocolate milk. "If it's not _too_ personal, then go ahead."

This comment only makes him quieter, but he finally spoke, and John has to lean in to hear his already deep voice speak lowly, "Is it true that you and your guitarist are fucking?"

Oh, God, that's a relief. John actually laughed. Him and Greg, fucking. He can live with the shipping the fans do; it's not like there's anything he can do about it. But to hear this from someone just makes him want to laugh some more. So he does.

"No, Sherlock, we're not fucking. Greg is fucking everyone else, and I'm not fucking anyone at all."

Perhaps that was a weird way to word his situation. John wants to punch himself in the face until he breaks his nose.

"Oh. Okay," Sherlock said. His phone in his lap vibrated, and he picks it up, the screen enhancing those perfect features. John wants nothing more than to just touch him again, to feel his hair and skin once more . . . "My parents are on their way home."

That's John's queue to leave. He doesn't allow himself to think for one moment that Sherlock made that up to get him out because he doesn't want to think about it. He used to be so good at not thinking about things he didn't want to think about. What the hell happened?

"Right, okay. Bye, Sherlock, thanks for the coffee. And the song. The song is fantastic."

Sherlock stood as John did and handed him his jacket, which John mumbled a "cheers" to and put it on. He walked him to the door and they stopped before opening it, a wordless communication because they couldn't leave it like this.

"Will you be in touch?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, of course," John said.

Then for the next two or three seconds, Sherlock was wrapped in his arms in the world's briefest hug.

"Thanks," John said and doesn't realize it until he's outside and driving home.


End file.
